Support the Delusion

You'd think that I'd run in the opposite direction from a screening of a film called "The Store."

I do, after all, hate to shop and avoid it like the plague, excepting grocery and wine shopping.

But as part of the Brian Ulrich show at the Anderson Gallery, "Coppia," they're doing a four-week film series and tonight's was "The Store."

It was a 1983 documentary about Neiman Marcus' flagship store in Dallas, done without narration or point of view.

Just the facts, folks. Heaven to us documentary dorks.

Let's just say the comedic value was almost as high as the cultural snapshot of life in the early '80s.

For those who may not remember, those were both the "Dynasty" and Reagan years, two tragic and concurrent periods in our country's cultural decline.

A man comes in to buy a fur for his honey and compares wild sable and farm-raised sable jackets, with the salesman telling him, "Sable is a great Texas coat."

He's leaning toward the $45,000 wild caught one (more silver hairs).

In another scene, a woman tries on $25,000 rings while her blase husband looks on.

Over in the cosmetic department, a male associate does a makeover on a woman.

At a staff meeting to discuss N-M's new "international market," the store manager explains that they can't just stack salamis seven-deep.

"We can't sell butter cream cakes with blue roses next to kiwi tarts," he explains, meaning there will be no butter cream cakes at Neiman-Marcus.

But it wasn't retail that interested me, it was the times.

The time when all the women wore power suits with shoulder pads and blouses that tied in bows at the neck.

The time when half the staff smoked during sales meetings.

For that matter, customers smoked in the store, like the hacking old biddy who's ordering china from an accommodating salesman.

The time when stores had in-house seamstresses, telephone operators answering the switchboard  and in-store jewelers.

I know it sounds like I'm describing mid-century America, but it was really just thirty years ago.

The security manager talks losses, theft and how the store had "four shoplifters this month."

Four? Four?

For a minute, the '80s seemed like the Eisenhower years.

Probably the coolest shots were at the founders' 75th anniversary celebration for the store.

Getting out of a limo was none other than Lady Bird Johnson.  Columnist Art Buchwald spoke at the event.

Seeing both of them was like seeing a newsreel but from long past the days of newsreels.

Other than them, though, it seemed to focus on a lot of nouveau riche Texas types who, as my grandmother used to say, had more money than sense.

I, on the other hand, have way more sense than scratch.

So, naturally, a free show appeals to me.

Like tonight's at Balliceaux with Izzy and the Catastrophics, part of a two-week tour to Florida that just began for the group.

We are just off I-95 South, after all.

The quartet of guitar, upright bass, drums  and sax began by saying that no two set lists were ever the same because each member of the band gets to pick the next song in turn.

The small crowd was enthusiastic about this fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants plan.

Front man Izzy was a force of nature on guitar, singing and theatrics.

We heard "Shiek of Araby" with its repeating chorus of, "Ain't got no pants," and that took us from Dixieland to surf guitar for the next song.

It appeared that Izzy was going to take us on an interesting ride tonight.

But not before explaining that the drummer and bass player were new to the group.

So new that this was their first gig with him.

When someone picked "Freeborn Man" for the next song, Izzy held up a finger to us.

"Let me explain to the drummer how this one goes and I'll be right back with you."

He and Steve had a tete a tete, he was back and the song was some solid testifying.

They followed that with Izzy saying, "I was feeling really bitter about a relationship when I wrote this song. It's about a bad breakup."

And, yes, "Mambo on Your Grave" had some bitter lyrics but the mambo beat underneath kept it lively.

"Beggin' for Megan" came about when Izzy was in New Orleans and talking with his then-band about girls.

"Everyone in the band had been involved with a Meagan there," he shared. "Whether or not they were all the same Meagan is still controversial."

And just for the record, more than one current member ended up on the stage begging.

The good news was it also got one couple dancing frenetically.

Emiliano, the sax player, chose "Had Some Loving" for his next pick, because that's the kind of song Italians choose.

Between songs, Izzy announced, "This might be a good time t to mention that we don't have a place to stay tonight."

"Yes, you do!" said a genial guy in the front row.

"Do you have beer?" Izzy asked of his generous host. He did.

Addressing the rest of us, Izzy checked his options first. "Anyone else have panthers or hot tubs?

We looked on blankly.

"No? Okay, we're staying with you."

And a bro-sleepover is born.

No judging here.

Then Izzy was back to business, asking the bass player what he wanted to play.

Instead of answering, the bass player, Jeff,  began playing.

Three notes in, Izzy said, "Oh, that's a good one," and the band kicked into, "Ciao, Bella."

I should probably mention here that Izzy is quite theatrical, so hand gestures, posturing and stage movements were part of the price of admission, not that there was one.

After hearing about a burlesque dancer from home (Brooklyn), Dirty Martini, we were treated to a song, "Dirty Martini in a String Bikini." about her.

The bump and grind that accompanied that song had to be seen to be fully appreciated.

That said, they did a snappy version of "Honeysuckle Rose," with Izzy saying, "I only like songs I wrote or songs written by people I idolize. And I idolize Fats Waller."

Hence the honeysuckle.

There was a Hank Williams song ("My Bucket's Got a Hole in It") that was played while Emiliano traded his sax for a guitar case to collect ducats for their "Taco Bell fund" which they claimed was running dangerously low.

"Support the delusion!" Izzy exhorted. I did.

I was just glad I'd seen them having a wholesome Balliceaux meal before performing or I'd be worried sick.

For "I'm Gonna Knock You Out with My Love," one of Izzy's songs, there may have even been a hint of (was it?) yodeling.

Soon came an instrumental, introduced as such, with Izzy saying, "We haven't had time to practice it and this is their first gig. I wanna see what happens with it."

For their last song, the Italian sax player, Emiliano, chose Charlie Parker's "Ornithology" to close the performance.

Bebop was definitely the way to go out, as evidenced by the couple dancing madly throughout- sometimes terrifyingly fast, sometimes just side to side rhythmically, but never able to stop moving.

I wouldn't be surprised if the same kind of thing doesn't go down at that bro p.j. party.

Enlightening and Dismal

It's good to be reminded of alternate mindsets.

I found that out by going to the Anderson Gallery for Brian Ulrich's talk on his current shows, "Coppia" and "Closeout," which I'd already seen once, here.

Walking to the front of the gallery to talk to the room-overflowing crowd, a good percentage of whom were students, he gestured at the mic and asked, "Do I need this?"

Pause. "It would be awesome if it had some reverb on it."

I knew exactly what he meant.

He settled on moving the stand nearer him and perching on a stool to talk about his photographs.

Explaining that after September 11th he lost interest in the kind of autobiographical work he'd been doing, he began explaining the overwhelming sadness that had permeated the country in the weeks after.

He referred to an overall "grieving umbrella" that we all had fallen under then.

As he continued to explain something so obvious, it occurred to me.

Most of the people in the room had been 8,9,10 years old when the attack had happened.

Children.

No matter what they recall of the events and the effects, they did not process it as adults and their take on it would almost have to be less fully informed.

Ergo Brian's setting the cultural scene for them.

What I saw as quite obvious had to laid out for them.

While describing shooting the thrift stores for the second part of the project, he said, "I was working in thrift stores while I was an undergraduate. It was an enlightening and dismal experience."

He sheepishly shared how he'd removed things from "dark" malls long closed.

When it came to the end, he concluded by saying, "I feel like that was the longest run-on sentence."

There was big talk, "Discover a commitment to an idea," and reassurances, "I think I'm making dumb, bad pictures and then something clicks."

Hell, that could be considered the kernel of artistic endeavor.

But the reality is his shopping photographs are, as he admits, "Not living room art. People have to get it."

Talking about people redefining what their definition of success is had him instantly mindful of his audience.

"That was definitely not meant to be ironic," he clarified.

Again, what I saw as quite obvious had to be laid out for them.

Wow. I'm not old, I'm just pre-ironic.

I always enjoy hearing questions from students trying to wrap their heads around hearing from an adult who's succeeding artistically.

I left the grasshoppers to the master to head over to Steady Sounds for comedy.

My neighborhood record store was sponsoring #14 (I think) of the Midnight Suggestion upstairs under the world's lowest ceiling.

Waiting for things to get started, I perused the bins, deciding which had the best come-ons on them.

The winner: Imperial Teen's "Feel the Sound" with the Rolling Stone tease, "California new wave trash pop deviants."

If you ask me, Trash Pop Deviants is a much better band name than Imperial Teen anyway.

Gradually people began moving upstairs for a quartet of Austin comedians.

There I saw an acquaintance who'd just discovered he and his wife are having triplets, so I had to ask if he'd seen his life flash before his eyes when he'd heard the news.

"Yea, that first day was a black day," he admitted, mentioning a morning drink before adjusting to the very big news.

No wonder he'd come to laugh.

I met a couple of guys next to me, one of whom's wife told him, "You're in fat's cross hairs."

I'm sure she only told him for his own good, but a couple of us laughed out loud.

Marty, one of Steady's owners came up to turn on the air conditioning, worried that on this unseasonably warm, windy and humid night, that we might need cooling down.

It was a good call.

Our emcee had not had time to come up with any clever puns of introduction for the comedians, but he plucked a few things from the "Times" headlines for some last-minute topical humor.

Then we were on to Shawn who introduced himself as "White Man #2," when he moved to the front of the room to crack wise.

Train travel was described as preferable to flying because if there was a murder, the passengers would solve it.

That could even be called literary humor.

Aging came up when he mentioned he'd looked in the mirror and realized that, at age 33, he wasn't going to be very "desirable" in prison.

"That's sweet," he said of being left alone, "And kind of bitter."

Humor.

The next guy was Jesse (I think?) and he led with smoking, mentioning how bad bowling allies smelled and how they were better than the patch or gum for quitting motivation.

Honestly, I had no idea there were still places that allowed smoking.

He even included a public service announcement, "Tip your bartenders well!" so he was also teaching us life lessons.

Bill wore a vest, perhaps so would be remembered as the comedian who wore a vest.

He said he used to do Cafe Diem, notable mainly because of the superior graffiti on its bathroom walls.

That degenerated into ghosts and oral pleasures before he brought us back to his breakup.

Is there a more reliable comedy crutch?

But we weren't to fret for him because he'd used the opportunity to go on OKCupid, the salvation of the single and the broken-hearted.

Or so I've heard.

Immediately a woman in the audience challenged him on it and he asked what her issue with it was.

"You gotta have game!" she threw out.

He worked that into his routine which was basically about a girl not liking the kind of sex he wanted.

"Dump her!" the heckler suggested.

But his best line of the night was, "I'm tired of irony."

Aren't we all?

Last up was Joe, who obviously didn't know his crowd when he began by saying, "I'm not a vegetarian. That shit annoys me."

I give Joe credit, though; he taught me about otherkins, those people who see themselves as partially non-human.

Oh, yes, they do. Part kitty cat, maybe.

He got me laughing when he mentioned Spike TV and its tag line, "TV for Men," saying, "I thought all TV stations were."

Now I know they do a show called "Manswers," in which men ask questions and are given testosterone-fueled answers.

Hysterical.

Just as funny was his gun bit wherein he likened the NRA's suggestion that the solution to the gun problem is more guns by suggesting that the problem for diabetes is Sweet Tarts.

The headliner had been a funny guy. For that matter, they'd all been funny.

Texas new wave trash comedy deviants, even.

People just have to get it.

Buy Less, See More, Eat Anything

All I'm shooting for is to be a better person. That's all.

But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.

So, yea, it was just another Friday night.

First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.

(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?

The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.

While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.

And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.

From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.

Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.

Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.

The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.

Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."

Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.

The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.

Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.

Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.

We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.

From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.

Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").

A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").

Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.

The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.

Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.

It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."

Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.

All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.

As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.

So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.

But here's the dilemma.

Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.

Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?

This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.

I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.

The  wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.

Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.

The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."

What more could a person ask of a drink?

My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.

There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).

I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.

Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.

My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.

More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.

Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.

I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.

"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.

It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.